


Call of the Blood

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Falling In Love, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Top Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2020-12-20 16:03:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: The demon blood makes Sam strong, powerful, confident, but it also has a Viagra-esque side effect.  This isn't a problem when he drinks straight from Ruby, but one night he sips blood from a bottle and the only person around is his brother . . .Dean knows he shouldn't agree, knows he should stop Sam, but he's been in love with him for so long and every encounter is so perfect, so electric.  Then his body begins to change . . .





	1. Side Effect

**Author's Note:**

> This is a demon blood story, so, for the most part, it's going to be connected to the demon blood episodes, starting with the one where we (the viewers) first learn about Sam's addiction, "On the Head of a Pin."
> 
> This means Sam is going to be dark, selfish, and maybe a bit deranged, while Dean will be a mix of desperate and depressed.
> 
> Still, I'm hoping all of this will result in a believably happy ending.

Sam's POV:  
Wyoming

Ruby's blood erupts into my mouth, coating the interior with warm, thick, syrupy liquid. I close my eyes for a moment, relishing the indescribable, strangely sweet flavor. In a weird way, it reminds me of the milkshakes I had a secret fondness for as a kid--if they were hot and alive and mixed with a liberal amount of red pepper. There's also something of the rich decadence of molten chocolate lava cake; the blood tastes so lush, so unwholesome, so forbidden.

I remember hesitating before taking my first sip of demon blood, expecting it to be slimy and unpalatable. After all, I'm hardly unfamiliar with the flavor and texture of blood (especially my own). I was shocked to find the liquid so dangerously appealing. So incredibly seductive. So . . . .

The arm pressed to my lips pulls away, cutting off my reservoir. I blink rapidly, adjusting to the suddenly brighter artificial light. The seconds spent savoring Ruby's blood always feel so much longer than they really are.

Then--

Bam! Invincibility. Power sparking through my veins. Tendrils of fire bombarding every organ, every digit, every cell. Glorious relief coursing through me, as my body hungrily devours the substance it's been clamoring for.

I should care that I am well and truly locked into a perilous addiction, but why should the emergence of the inevitable concern me? Not when I'm so wonderfully high that I feel certain I could annihilate a whole army of demons should one be so unfortunate as to cross my path.

I'll settle for the monster who spent decades torturing my brother.

I hop off the bed, snagging my jacket as I head for the door.

"Wait, Sam." Ruby speaks from behind me.

I don't answer, don't turn. I know exactly where in the room she is without looking. I can sense the coiling of her demonic essence, smell the spice of her blood, hear the pounding of her dead heart.

"Don't you want help with that?" She sounds almost hesitant.

I glance down, see that the physical side effect of the blood has started to manifest. It won't be long before lust will drive all other thoughts from my head as I become steadily more painfully hard.

Ruby sidles in front of me. "You know it won't go away on its own."

This is frustratingly true. The problem also can't be solved using my own hands. I know because I tried. And tried. And tried. And still resisted Ruby until she literally threw herself into my lap. I trust her, but I am attracted to neither her sly personality nor her tiny vessel. I like statuesque goddesses with mile-long legs, beautiful features, and devil-may-care smiles. Jess. Sarah Blake. Madison (though I saw very little of her smile, since I met her in the last days of her tragic life). Even Cara, that doctor who tempted me into hot desk sex, fit this template. Ruby really doesn't. (Though I will admit that her previous vessel was almost my type). Still, there really isn't time to go cruising for a bed-warmer through the local bars.

"Fine," I grit. "Just make it quick." I really need to get to Dean.

She drops to her knees.

*

It takes Dean a week to fully recover from the damage done to him by Alastair, after the demon broke free of his restraints. (Or was set free, according to Dean's personal guardian angel). I spend the time alternating between mentally dancing, crowing, praising myself for Alastair's demise and clenching my fists in fury over what he did to my brother, wishing I could kill him again. Slower. Agonizingly slower.

A thump startles me out of my thoughts. Dean hovers restlessly between the two beds, impatience bleeding from his stormy eyes. He must have literally just hopped out of bed. Unsurprisingly, he proceeds to rip off all of his remaining bandages, tossing them in the general direction of the waste basket, before stalking over to where I'm perched in front of my laptop at the small round motel table and demanding, "Is there a case?"

I'm still not quite accustomed to how much deeper, rougher Dean's voice is since getting out of Hell. One of Bobby's books informed me that sometimes soul damage causes physical alterations to a person, but that knowledge only makes me flinch harder at the sound--at least when, like now, it's been long enough since he last spoke for me to subconsciously start to expect him to speak the way he did before . . . before. I clear my throat. "Not that I've found. I don't even see any demon signs, any evidence of seals we can stop from breaking."

Dean picks up one of my books, taps it against the table, sets it down. He pulls out a chair, pauses, pushes it back in. He circles the table, presses so close behind my chair I can feel his breath stir the hairs on my neck, peers over my shoulder.

I stand up. "Dude!"

He clambers into the chair I just vacated. "Mind if I look?"

I raise my hands. "Be my guest."

I stumble a bit as I take another step away, a sudden onset of dizziness clouding my balance. I grab a nearby chair back, closing my eyes. Red. Red blood bubbling, flowing, trickling. I slam my eyes back open with a gasp, jab my fingers against my forehead in a futile attempt to abort the burgeoning headache stabbing through my skull. 

"You okay?" Dean gapes at me, green eyes soft with concern.

"Yeah," I manage, "Just . . . ." I point at the bathroom.

*

I plop onto the lid of the toilet, try to accept the fact that I'm going into withdrawal far sooner than I anticipated. My dependency on demon blood grows frighteningly rapidly. I sigh, rub my itchy eyes. I didn't even realize the substance was addictive until I spent weeks craving it after abruptly quitting upon promising Dean I would stop using my powers. My brain kept whispering to me that, technically, I made no vows about demon blood, so I didn't actually have to stop. But I knew that my brother would have insisted, had he known about the blood, so I shut out the whispers.

Still, I knew my junkie fate when my determination to end Lilith led me to call Ruby, to resume consuming blood to hone my powers.

Speaking of, I better call her now, before I grow really sick and Dean bundles me off the emergency room or, worse, Bobby's. 

The phone rings, rings, rings before going to voicemail. "Ruby," I grunt, "please tell me you're available. I need to see you." I dial again. Nothing.

A knock, accompanied by a "You done, princess?" sends me stomp-stumbling out the door as Dean sweeps past. 

I sink onto my bed, drop my head into my hands. What to do? The hands pressing into my face tremble. What to do? My symptoms are still minor, hideable, but they won't remain so for long. The shower turns on. I hear a couple of splashes, then Dean's voice rumbling "Brother" way off-key.

I straighten. Dean must be planning to go out. Maybe, if I go with him, I'll come across a demon. I can sense the creatures so easily now that I would recognize one in the midst of a crowded, smoky bar. I could sneak her out back, drain her, sleep with her, kill her.

I feel my eyes light with anticipation. I can almost taste this unknown demoness's blood, almost feel it trickling down my throat. 

Of course, demons are like salt: the moment you need some, there are none to be found. I slump.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Okay. Either I've slipped into an Edgar Allen Poe poem or there's someone knocking extremely quietly at my motel room door.

I cautiously rise, slide my gun from its customary spot in the back of my jeans, silently crack the door. 

No one.

I open it completely, stop outside. Still no one. But. Is that a bottle? It is. A plain metal flask sits on the step, adorned only by a slip of paper. I frown, pick it up, read the note:

"Sam,  
This might be useful.  
Not mine.  
\--Ruby."

The contents slosh when I shake the bottle. Liquid. I pop the cap, take a whiff. Blood. Demon blood.

I thoughtlessly gulp a mouthful.

Definitely not Ruby's. It tastes a bit meatier, thicker. Masculine. Mmm. I tip my head back, enjoying the flavor, the sensation, the relief. All symptoms of withdrawal dissipate, replaced by bliss, vigor, crackling sparks of telekinesis, sense of indestructibility. 

I march back inside, cache the flask in the deepest corner of my duffle, relax onto my bed.

I hear clinks and shuffles and mild thuds from the bathroom, but the shower no longer pours. Dean must be completing his primping session. The guy must intend to not only go out for a few beers but also find a woman for the night. Not a bad idea, really. Kiss soft lips, caress smooth curves, sink into warm flesh . . . .

And there's the lust portion of today's hit.

I glance down to find my jeans bulging embarrassingly. I really should have waited to drink until we were already at the bar, preferably after locating a suitably attractive female. Now, I'll just have to hope I don't seem too obviously desperate. Or too clearly uncomfortable. I shift my position, press down on my already very hard groin.

An intake of breath, blasting loudly in this quiet room.

Dean stares at me, heedless of the water dripping from his hair over his huge, dilated eyes, down his flushed cheeks, past his open mouth. His gaze flits rapidly from my face to my shoulders to my loins and back. His chest rises with each heavy breath.

My brother has looked at me this way, off and on, since the first time I pinned him successfully while wrestling. When I was seventeen. In a moment, he'll swallow, turn around, gruffly inform me he's heading out, demand to know if I'm coming. And, I'll pretend I never saw any improper desire as I follow him out the door.

My groin throbs, demanding my attention. More of my blood rushes south, giving my downstairs brain a chance to give Dean a second look. Sure, he's male, but with those eyelashes and those lips and those cheekbones, he's more pretty than handsome. Beautiful, even. His hips are wide for a guy and those bowlegs give his form a pleasant curve. And, I can't see it from this angle, but I happen to know he's in possession of a lovely round bottom.

My breath catches. I'm moving before I realize, prowling across the room, stalking my wide-eyed prey. Dean stays rooted to the spot, warily following my movements.

When I reach him, I use one finger to tilt his head. Confused--but still lust-blown--green eyes meet mine. My other hand slithers down his chest, around his back to dip beneath his shirts. He lets out a startled gasp, which I capture with my mouth.

A frozen second later, he returns my embrace, winding his arms around my neck, burying his fingers into my hair, moaning against my lips.

A heady sensation of power washes over me.

I start walking backwards, pulling us towards my bed. He hesitates, backs away. "Sam-" I follow him, shaking my head, press my finger to his lips. "Let me," I mutter. A bit of wetness as his tongue snakes out, explores my digit. Now I'm the one gasping, panting.

I pull him flush against me, almost lift him as I manhandle my respiring brother onto the bed. I follow, kissing, sucking, biting, while pulling,ripping his clothes.

Next thing I know, he's writhing naked beneath me, wrapping his legs around my equally naked torso as I rut against him. It's absolutely incredible, but. But. How do I-?

"Sam!" Dean pants, "Lube!" He rotates his body so that he can reach over the gap between the beds to a small tube hiding under his pillow. He presses it into my hand, resumes sucking what I suspect will be an impressive hickey into my neck.

The thought that this might be a mistake flies from my brain.

I open him with shuddering fingers, encouraged by his moaning, sweating, blushing reactions. I pause, uncertain. He breathes, "Come on, Sam," so I push inside.

Hot and tight and heavenly.

I thrust in and he thrusts back until we find a rhythm, falling into that familiar age-old dance.

Until.

He screams my name as warm liquid spills between us.

My own orgasm explodes in response.

*

My high fades slowly, slipping away with tingling stutters. I'm left lying in bed, a dreamy puddle of contentment. No withdrawal symptoms, no desperate cravings, no helpless lust. Just. Warm satisfaction.

The realization that I'm alone creeps gently up on me. Dean's gone. Dean. Did I really sleep with my own brother? When I'm not even attracted to guys? I know demon blood affects moral judgment, but how could I have done such a thing?

I did, though. I can feel the sticky proof on my groin and my stomach.

My eyes widen as I leap to my feet.

This. I don't know how to fix this.

And where is Dean, anyway? He can't be really gone, can he? I race to the window to check if the Impala still sits in the lot.

Oh, good, she's there. Neon lights brush against her shiny paint, highlight a figure leaning against her side. Dean. He stares blankly at the sky, a bottle of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

What have I done to my brother?


	2. Swesson

Dean's POV:  
Ohio

Wesson confesses to me that I've been in all of his ghost-fighting dreams. He goes on and on about how close we are in these visions, how he's certain that we're meant to share a life of spook-hunting--that we're meant to be together.

Earnest eyes peer at me through dark waves of tousled hair. Muscles curve and flex beneath his (ugly) blood-spattered yellow shirt. Long fingers curl tightly around the edge of my desk, next to where he perches nervously on top of it.

He just saved my life, like some nerdy knight in shining armor and he's concerned that I don't like him--that I don't want to run off with him like an eloping Romeo and Juliet (or Romeo and Romeo?).

Wesson heaves in a shaky breath, the movement highlighting the beautiful angles of his face.

I'm drawn forward, running my fingers along the ridge of his cheekbone before my brain can inform me that this might not be the best idea.

He flinches, blinks, hops to his feet. But this only serves to bring our bodies closer together. His warmth tangles with mine, the fabric of our clothing mingles, a glance up reveals he's staring open-mouthed down at me.

That red, shapely mouth, tremulous with shock, emotion.

Irresistible.

I lift my hands to frame his face, take a moment to appreciate the gentle tickle of his light stubble, pull him down into a kiss. His gasp reverberates against my lips, prompting me to deepen our embrace, to plunder his mouth as I stand on tiptoe squeezing his gloriously wide, hard, ripped shoulders.

I stumble, struggle to catch my balance as he pushes me away, backs up several steps, bumps into the desk, rubs a shaking hand down his sweat-damp face.

"I thought," he manages through uneven breaths, "I thought you weren't interested."

Is that really what's bothering him? I glide forward. "I wasn't. I don't normally date my coworkers." I smooth a hand down his firm chest. "But we're more than that now."

He slips away again. "Yes, we are. We're like brothers." Steely eyes drill into me. "At least we could be. I think we're supposed to be."

"Brothers." I swallow. He wants me to travel the country completely platonically with the most gorgeous man I've ever met. No. Not appealing.

He keeps trying to convince me until I tell him to leave.

*

The next morning, I quit my job. My boss responds by pressing two fingers against my forehead.

The world spins.

I'm Dean Winchester.

Sammy is my brother.

Mr. Adler, it turns out, is the angel Zachariah.

Oh, no.

*

I take the final bite of my bacon cheeseburger, wad up the wrapper and throw it in the general direction of the trashcan. As I chew, I lean contentedly against the headboard of my motel room bed. "Man, that hits the spot," I sigh. "I can't believe I went three weeks surviving on rabbit food and liquid cleanses." I grimace, crack one eye open to see if Sam is listening.

He sits at the little table by the wall, nibbling a grilled chicken sandwich, legs jittering as he stares sightlessly at the generic painting beside the bathroom. The fingers not holding his food tap a frenetic pattern on his lap.

There's something uncomfortably familiar about the activity. I'm not quite sure what because I'm not sure if I've ever seen Sam behave this way before.

But.

I think I have. I think I've been like that.

My hands subconsciously scrabble through my duffel, close upon a small rectangular box. I slowly pull out the pack of Marlboros, look at it. My body reacted to Sam's sweaty jiggling by telling me to smoke, reminding me that trembling hands is a sign of nicotine withdrawal. 

Withdrawal.

But Sam . . . . No. That can't be accurate. 

My brother pulls out his phone, glares at it, shoves it back in his pocket, starts gnawing on his nails.

I drop the box back into my bag. I returned from Hell with clear lungs and an unaddicted body. I've been trying to remain so, despite my exhausted, stressed-out, PTSD-stricken mind constantly hinting that nicotine will relax me. Sometimes it works. Too often, maybe. But Sam's current inexplicably agitated state provides me with a clear refresher of the high cost.

Sam jerks at the sound of my zipping my bag. He stumbles to his feet, mutters something about being back in a moment, staggers into the bathroom.

Oh. Maybe he's just sick.

Honestly, it's a wonder that all I'm experiencing is a bit of dizziness from being stuck inside a self-starving health nut for a few weeks.

*

Sam spends an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom. When he finally emerges, I'm ready to tease him about being a princess, ask him if he's used up all his beauty products, hint at menstruation.

All such thoughts fly from my brain at the sight of my rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, beautiful brother. Damp tendrils of hair curl around his face and wet circles dot the front of his charcoal vee-neck tee, indicating that he splashed water in his face not so long ago. He licks his lower lip, swallows, smiles almost like he's savoring the final drops of a forbidden drink. 

I feel a strange envy--I want to lick Sam's lips and savor his flavor. Not that that's anything new, since I've been fixated on my brother's mouth for the past decade.

I drop my eyes, notice that my groin betrays my interest, cover my lap with the nearest object: a tome on angelology borrowed from Bobby.

Yesterday, Dean Smith looked at Sam Wesson in much the same way. He was rejected. By my memory, the angels didn't bother to alter Sam's personality, like they did to me. That makes his rebuff sincere. It means he truly doesn't share my attraction.

So, then, why . . . ?

Three and a half weeks ago, he seduced me. The next morning, we were unrelated strangers and his curiosity about me was entirely the result of dreaming our hidden memories. I still found him irresistibly appealing, but he didn't find me so.

So, which emotion is real?

I heave a sigh, open the book on my lap to random page. The angels didn't fundamentally change Sam, so his sleeping with me before they grabbed him was either temporary insanity on his part or a hallucination on mine.

The bed jerks as Sam plops beside me. "We should go out tonight. Find a bar and just . . . relax." His lips quirk in an almost smile. "You know, recover from being corporate douchebags." His fingers drum on the faded blue bedspread.

Up close, he's even more vividly robust. His eyes glitter, his shirt strains across his chest and biceps, his veins try to pop from his tanned forearms.

I'm still not entirely clear when or how he got so massive, but it's hard to tone down my appreciative leer, hard to stop my fingers from twitching with an itch to touch, to explore, to caress.

Especially now that I know what it's like to drag my nails down his back as he pound into me, now that I know how his lower back feels when my legs wrap around him, now that I've experienced the euphoric zing of his seed spilling into me.

When I bemoaned my rehymenated state to Sam months ago, his fond amusement made it clear how silly he thought I was being. After all, men's bodies don't actually change when we have sex with women. He never guessed I referred to my virginally-tight hole. After all, I always flaunted my assignations with women while hiding how often I snuck off with dark-haired, dominant giants. Not that I've done that lately.

Sam doesn't know he took my second virginity.

The bed jiggles. I jump, glance over to see Sam's foot bobbing impatiently against his knee. Oh. I never answered him. He catches my eye, comments, "Or I could just go by myself. If you want to stay here."

I study him for a moment. He's antsy, but not in the same way he was before. His pupils are blown, his cheeks flushed, his breathing a shade heavier than normal. A blink at his lap reveals a tell-tale bulge. My brother is looking to get laid.

An irrational surge of jealous, possessive fury ignites me.

Sam will not sleep with someone else while I'm available. Not if I can do anything to stop it.

"Let's stay in," I growl and, for the second time in two days, I grab his face and latch my mouth to his.

This time he responds. 

It's not long before he's moaning into my lips, grasping my arms, guiding me onto my back.

My body opens for him easily, nearly effortlessly.

And soon--but not too soon--we climax together. Warmth gushes inside me, filling me with comfort, rightness, but also sending tingles zipping through my body. Tingles and sparks and skittering pleasure.

Plus.

Spatters of dark power.


	3. Chuck

Sam's POV:  
Kripke's Hollow

Chuck Shurley, aka Carver Edlund, aka the writer who published disturbingly detailed accounts about my brother's and my lives (I really didn't need to know exactly how many times Dean brought Cassie to orgasm or the way his freckles nearly disappeared beneath a full-body flush as she sucked him to completion) informs me, eyes brimming with a mix of pity and disgust, that he didn't mention my demon blood use in his more recent books because he thought it would make me seem unsympathetic.

My immediately raised hackles settle down as I meet his concerned gaze. I find myself explaining my motivations, almost pleading for understanding, for empathy. Who--or what--is this man that he inspires such a reaction? Maybe I just inherently trust him to comprehend my motivations, my struggles because he thinks he created us. He knows me inside and out.

Which means . . . .

I swallow, drop my gaze, twist my fingers. "Chuck, did you . . . did you see anything else?"

Chuck reaches across the table to press a gentle hand on my shoulder. Blue eyes bore into me. "Sam. Are you aware Dean has been in love with you since you were sixteen?"

I lower my head further, squeeze my eyes shut, whisper, "Yes."

Chuck lets go of me, leans back in his chair. "He fell for you when he bumped into you leaving the bathroom and he realized he was looking up at you for the first time." A slight smile. "Later, he watched you debate the origins of harpies with Caleb and he got caught up the way your eyes glow when you're animated about something."

I hold out a hand, start to get up. "I-I shouldn't know this. It's private."

A surprisingly strong hand grips my arm, suspending my movement. "I'm telling you this so that you recognize that you're using him!"

What can I respond to that? It's true. Completely, inexcusably, humiliatingly true. That I find my brother irresistible when I'm hopped up on blood is no justification for taking advantage of him.

All the more reason why I need to finish this sooner rather than later.

I will kill Lilith.

Now.

*

A few burned hex bags so my location is no longer hidden and Lilith waltzes into my motel room, just like Chuck predicted, wearing an adult woman, also like Chuck predicted. Granted, Chuck also referred to her new vessel as "comely," but different men have different tastes in women. I think her eyes are so wide apart that she looks like she just escaped from an alien spaceship, so the prophesy that I'm about to have hot demon sex with her seems unlikely (as well as unbelievably distasteful). 

Except.

She informs me she seals bargains with her body and that the deal she wants to make with me involves aborting the apocalypse.

Tempting.

But.

"Hmm." The demon eyes my groin, raises a brow. "I can see you're less than interested in my offer." She slinks closer. "But I know how to help with that." She slides one long sharp fingernail across the delicate skin of her pale wrist, winces slightly as the blood wells up, before raising her arm to me in offering.

The rich, pungent scent fills my nostrils, sends messages of proffered ecstasy to my brain.

I gasp, stagger against my bed.

I don't actually need any blood right now--Ruby visited my motel room while Dean drank at a bar two nights ago--but the temptation of that ancient, powerful, deadly elixir ignites a desperation within me to taste, to experience.

To lick and slurp and devour until her demonic essence heals the wound. All. Too. Quickly.

I drop her arm, stumble backwards, wince at the too loud whoosh of my breathing in this stifling room.

She follows, presses against me, rubs my hardening groin. "That's more like it," she purrs. She glides past me to the bed, invites me to join her.

I pause.

The blood careens through my body, topping off all the cavities that were slowly emptying as time passed since my last fix. Electricity crackles through my veins, flares up and down every finger, every toe, every hair maybe. I close my eyes, tilt my head back, luxuriate in the feeling.

A throat clears.

I blink at Lilith. This is the monster who sent hellhounds to murder my brother. She's the reason he spent forty torturous, horrific, harrowing years in Hell. No. There is no need for any bargain; the apocalypse will end just as surely if she's dead.

My burgeoning erection wilts before ever nearing full hardness.

I surreptitiously check to make certain my demon-killing knife is in reach as I approach the bed.

*

I fiddle with that knife as I stare out the Impala window two hours later. Could I have used it to kill Lilith had Dean not interrupted us? Could I have ended all of this had I been just a bit faster? She gave me her blood; could my powers have possibly actually worked on her after that? Why didn't I try?

A screaming squeal of the tires jolts me out of my reverie as Dean pulls over to the side, slamming on the breaks. He rips the key from the ignition, glares at me.

I gape back. "What?"

"Just." A shaky breath. "How hard were you really trying to kill Lilith? You two were all" he makes an incomprehensible gesture "tangled on the bed."

I huff. "That was only so I could get close enough to stab her! I wasn't actually going to" I make an incomprehensible gesture of my own "sleep with her."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "I don't know, Sam. You seem to have a thing for monsters. Lilith should be right up your alley."

I roll my eyes. "Not even if her meat-suit was actually my type."

"Good." He speaks quietly, little more than a rumble.

"Good?" I glance enquiringly over at him. I mean, obviously it's good that I'm not attracted to the queen of demons, but . . . .

Dean slides across the bench seat, crawls onto my lap. "No more demons." He kisses my jaw. "No more werewolves." He bites my earlobe. "No more potential sirens." He sucks on my neck. "No one but me," he whispers into my mouth.

I forget how to breathe as I gape at him. How did I never notice the way thick black eyelashes frame glimmering summer green orbs? How did I miss the charm of his cinnamon freckles spreading over a face almost too beautiful to be real? How did I fail to notice the sensuous appeal of those full, luscious lips, especially when his teeth bite down on the lower one?

My body feels too warm, my lungs too tight, my clothes too constricting. I want . . . .

Cool fingers unzip my jeans, free me. When did I get so hard, so desperate? This resembles the blood-induced lust, but it can't be: it's been hours since my last dose. Maybe this reaction was somehow delayed?--I sure didn't get hard for Lilith.

The cool fingers return, smear lube all up and down my member. I moan, reach for my brother. He brushes my hands away, mutters, "Let me," and sinks down onto me.

All thoughts flutter away, replaced by pleasure, aching need, then bliss.


	4. Adam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out "Jump the Shark" aired on my birthday. At the time, I was completing my MA (in English Lit) and planning my wedding. Supernatural wasn't on my radar. In fact, I'm pretty sure the first time I even heard about the show was a couple years later on a Doctor Who fan page.

Dean's POV:  
Minnesota

Sam slams me against the passenger side of the Impala, attacks my lips, stealing my breath, my thoughts, my solidity. I stumble, nearly fall, as my legs lose their ability to hold my weight, but my brother catches me, easily hoists my legs around his waist as he continues to explore--to take possession of--the interior of my mouth.

Abruptly, he untangles our mouths, sets me down. Before I can formulate a protest, a query, or a demand, he spins me around, pushes my chest into the chilly car window, yanks my jeans down. Popping--and likely destroying--my belt buckle in the process.

A slick finger slides smoothly inside me. "This gets easier every time," Sam mutters thoughtfully behind me. "Just open right up."

It feels better every time, too, the pleasure ratcheting up, like every nerve ending within me is attuned to Sam's touch. Certainly, he's grown more experienced, more accustomed to a male lover (something tells me my brother never so much as fingered himself, never had any interest in visiting Jessica's backdoor), but even when he preps me quickly, perfunctorily, then jams his more than proportional (for a freaking giant!) member into my hole, there's no longer any pain, any burning, any discomfort. My body just welcomes him in.

Like it does now.

I gasp at the delicious intrusion, collapse against the cool exterior of my Baby. Sam, having achieved his desperate, almost manic, aim of getting inside me, slows his movements, plows me leisurely. I think I hear him whisper "So beautiful" before he reaches around to tug gently on my nipples, before he dances his fingers down my torso until he's caressing my heretofore always ignored crotch.

I come immediately, my head thunking backwards against my brother's wide, toned shoulder.

He speeds up in response, chasing his own release. I tense in anticipation of--

"Dean!" Sam cries out as he empties himself into me. Warmth glittering with electrifying pinpricks gushes deep into my core, blazes throughout my whole body until I'm screaming a second orgasm. 

I lean against my car, dazed by the intensity. What is it about Sam's spunk that makes me crave the sensation of it geysering inside me? I prefer bottoming (if I want to top, there are plenty of gorgeous, willing women to choose from) but I've previously always insisted on condoms, always hated the feel of that sticky liquid dripping out of me. So, why do I love it when the sticky liquid comes from Sam? Maybe it's just because it's Sam. I shrug, peer at the individual in question through my eyelashes.

He's stripping out of the flannel that he never removed during our . . . is lovemaking the right word? I allow myself a moment to appreciate the flex of his muscles beneath the single layer of his tee shirt. I wonder if Sam has been sneaking burgers without my noticing, because he can't possibly have developed a physique like that with protein-lite salads.

Still . . . .

I forget the point I was about to make to myself when my brother starts carefully, methodically, tenderly (?) cleaning me with his discarded shirt. I stare up at him, but his guarded face reveals no explanation for this sweet concern. All of our previous encounters ended with Sam disappearing--into the shower, into the other bed, into his thoughts. Why the change?

He even screamed my name for the first time tonight.

*

Two days later, I'm staring into the eyes of another brother--one I had no idea existed.

It's almost like looking into a distorted photo of myself about ten years ago. Sandy-blond hair. Big eyes (his are blue, though). Full lips. A face (irritatingly) more pretty than handsome. We're even the same height. A stranger would know him for my younger brother immediately.

This shouldn't be odd. Except. The kid--Adam--bears no resemblance to Dad. Neither, truthfully, do I. This means that the two of us look so much alike because our unrelated mothers were so similar, because Dad had a type.

The realization is disconcerting enough that I almost feel ill.

"Where did Sam say he was going again?" Adam's voice jerks me out of my reflections.

"He's getting a drink of water." Although, the pause Sam left before tacking on the word 'water' made me wonder if that's really what he's ingesting. Not that I blame him.

Adam flicks a skeptical eye at the kitchen. "He's been gone awhile."

He has. It's become increasingly common for Sam to invent a pretext to slip away. I know he sneaks off to visit Ruby, returning an hour or so later reeking of the lavender perfume the demon skank uses to try to mask her sulfuric stench. More often, though, he comes back after only a few minutes, glassy-eyed and . . . . And Adam is looking at me, expecting a reply. "He's probably just rechecking the upstairs."

Adam frowns. "Is he . . . ?" he bites his lip. "Is Sam really your brother? He doesn't look anything like you. Us."

So Adam's been pondering familial resemblances, too. Guess he and I are alike in more than looks. It's true, though. The witnesses we question never doubt that we're coworkers (even if they doubt the nature of our employment). When we mention our relation, the most common reaction is raised eyebrows as the individual glances rapidly between us, comparing our dissimilar features. Sometimes, the person nods, then proceeds to fill his conversation with sly hints and innuendos, leaving no doubt that he believes we call ourselves brothers to hide our true (romantic) relationship. Not my fault I take after my mother, while "Sam looks like Dad."

Adam's eyes drift over to a photo of Dad. "Huh. I guess he does."

Towering height, dimples, dark wavy hair. Still, I wonder where Sam inherited those exotic color-changing eyes? They're the most gorgeous I've ever seen, especially darkened by lust and intent as he prowls across the room after one of his mysterious absences, ready to pound me into the nearest available surface.

My breath catches at the thought.

Adam turns to me, a question noticeably forming on his lips.

"Hey, guys." Sam saunters in, hands casually in his pockets, but his calm posture is belied by his gleaming eyes, his flushed cheeks, the predatory way his gaze rakes up and down my body.

Hmm. I think Adam can survive without us for a bit. That mattress I spotted in the basement could use some extra examination.

*

Turns out, Adam really couldn't survive without us. Considering the real Adam was dead before we even arrived. If we'd known he existed, we could have saved him. Maybe.

I sigh, feed another twig into the fire devouring my half-brother's body. I never even actually met him, and I'll never know how much of the Adam I did meet was my brother and how much the ghoul pretending to be him. Shifters take on the memories and personalities of those they impersonate, so it was probably a close approximation. Probably.

I . . . .

I really want to smoke.

But I won't.

As if hearing my thoughts, Sam chooses that moment to retrieve a couple of beers from the car, toss me one. I watch him open his bottle, wrap his lips around it, swallow a few gulps. He's still a little pale, shaky from blood loss.

Those ghouls weren't just draining him for food. They were savoring every taste of his blood and--time to face reality--getting high from whatever extra races through his veins.

I need to accept that my brother is an addict.

But addicted to what?


	5. Jimmy

Sam's POV:  
Illinois

Red. Red light bathes overturned chairs, crooked tables, vaulted ceilings, the littering bodies of--I somehow know--demons and hunters. Power thrums through my veins as I saunter into this fortress my army and I have conquered. I kill anyone who crosses my path with a thought, a flick of blood-fueled telekinesis. 

A man edges through the doorway, gun first, eyes rapidly noting and cataloging all the fallen objects and persons. They flash up my body, settle on my face.

I cock my head, study him in turn. Worn clothes, heavy scarf, beard, wind-mussed hair, weathered but handsome face. And. Unmistakably, undeniably my brother.

Dean begs, "Sammy, please," tears coloring his voice.

"Sammy."

"Sam!"

"Sam, wake up!"

I jerk out of my disturbing nightmare to find Dean shaking me, shouting my name. Lucky for him, I don't (yet?) possess the powers I controlled in my dream, so he doesn't die when my subconscious prompts me to attack my assailant with my mind instead of the gun under my pillow. (Dean and I really should learn not to awaken one another so abruptly).

I sit up, push my hair off my face, rub my eyes, blink multiple times. "Okay, I'm up," I yawn, "What's going on?"

Dean throws a flannel at me. "We have to go; come on!" He drags on his boots, ties them in the quick, efficient manner our Dad taught us when we were children. "Cas needs us."

I scratch the back of my neck. "What do you mean, 'Cas needs us'? Did he flap in while I was asleep?" I stand up, stretch. "You'd think that would wake me up." I slide the shirt Dean tossed at me over my shoulders. "Or did the guy figure out how to use a phone?"

My brother grabs his shower kit from the bathroom, drops it into his duffel, zips the bag closed. "No!" He glares at me. "He, um . . . ." Dean rubs his neck, studies the stained carpet. After a moment, he looks up, huffs a breath. "He visited my dream, okay? Anyway, he's says it's urgent, so we need to go. Now." He stomps out of the room.

I frown at the swinging door. The angel Castiel visited my brother in the intimacy of his dreams. Instead of being angry at the intrusion, Dean's response is to hurry to do the man's--angel's--bidding.

Why does this bother me so much?

*

Why am I also so bothered by Dean's concern for Castiel's vessel? Jimmy's good-looking, I suppose. For a guy. Soft features and big blue eyes and black hair. Lengthen his tresses a bit after replacing his angles with feminine curves and maybe. I swallow a gag. I don't know. I've never been attracted to men.

Except.

My gaze drifts to my brother. Green eyes examine the familiar body and completely foreign personality in front of him. His brows draw together as he bites his lip. White teeth denting into that full, pink lip, causing it swell, darken into red.

Is it getting warm in here?

Actually, come to think of it, I really am feeling overheated. Feverish, even. Sweat accumulates on my brow, dampens my undershirt. I wipe the moisture off, pull my sleeves away from my skin. I'll need to change if this keeps up.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean's concerned contemplation darts from the unangelic Jimmy over to me.

I scratch at my wrists. "I-yeah. I'm fine." Not fine, based on the black spots accumulating in front of my eyes. "I just-I need to make a phone call." I ignore Dean's suspicious stare and Jimmy's curious gape as I slip out of the motel room.

No answer. I pull out my too-light flask and shake it. No slosh. There might be a couple drops left in there if I really, desperately need them. But they won't be enough and where is Ruby?

I check my phone. No missed calls, no voicemails, no texts.

I sweep the parking lot, hoping to spot her small form with a knife in one hand and a bottle of blood in the other, but all I see is an alley cat slinking between the cars, searching for scraps or rodents.

No Ruby.

Our only company is a confused, flight-ready, former angel vessel who sits far too close to my brother.

*

I wipe the blood off my cheeks and chin and mouth. Castiel is back inside Jimmy and I feel myself again. Still, I do need to get in contact with Ruby--I can't hunt down a demon every time she goes MIA, especially not with how strong my dependency has grown.

I toss the soiled towel in a nearby dumpster, head over to the Impala. Dean slams the trunk shut, throws me a curt "Get in," climbs into the driver's seat. He refuses to discuss the demon blood use he just discovered, will barely even look at me. His disapproval weighs down upon me until it feels like the interior of the car possesses a far denser gravity than the outside world.

Meanwhile, the blood slides deeper into my system, kindles my nether regions. I thought this particular side affect was fading--certainly my interest in Ruby's dinky body grows less each time I drink from her--but my current ratcheting lust hints otherwise.

A call from Bobby distracts my brain but not my body.

My clothes remain uncomfortably tight throughout the conversation and I have to forcibly stop my breath from hitching. Bobby's gruffness does nothing for me--thank goodness--but Dean sits corporeally, inescapably beside me, filling my peripheral vision. 

When he asks about the call, the rumble of his deep, musical voice sends vibrations straight to my groin, growing it impossibly bigger, harder. I fail to suppress a moan in response.

Green eyes flash to my face, then my lap. An eyebrow rises. "Baby getting you excited?" He pats the dashboard.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, Dean, I'm attracted to your car."

Delectable lips curve into a knowing smirk. "Figured. Or maybe you just can't resist her driver." He gestures to himself. Jacket stretching across wide shoulders, denim pulled tight over muscular thighs, the graceful curvature of his high cheekbones.

My breath catches. I don't trust myself to reply--I might beg, demand, or cajole him to pull over. A small, sane part of me rejoices at the banter, hopes it means he'll listen to my explanations, accept my reasons for using demon blood.

The breaks scream as Dean slams the Impala into a stop.

Yes! Half a second later, I have my brother pressed against the car door, my lips bruising his.

I deepen the kiss, cradle his head with one hand, while the other fumbles with his belt buckle. He moans into my mouth, tangles his fingers in my hair, widens his legs to grant me access.

Then.

I fly back across the bench seat, crash into my own door. He pushed me. Why?

Dean wipes his mouth, adjusts his jeans. "No," he says. "Not yet. Not until . . . . I-I need to know . . . ." His stammering trails into silence.

"What?" I ask, trying to settle my overexcited groin. It doesn't work. "What do you need to know." A thought hits me. "Is it about the demon blood?"

Green eyes widen. "No. Yes." He squeezes his fingers together, closes his eyes. When he opens them, they bore straight into mine. "This." He waves a hand between the two of us. "This is only because of" a disgusted grimace "of the blood, isn't it?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. "At first, but . . . ."

A hand slams against the dashboard, shaking the car, jerking my eyes open. Dean's eyes are suspiciously shiny. "You're straight. You've always been straight. I should have known it wasn't real." He whispers the last sentence.

"Dean, I-"

"Let's go to Bobby's." He restarts the car, turns on the radio, spinning the volume button until it's too loud for conversation. The speakers blare "Whipping Post," the heartbreaking lyrics crying of the torture of betrayal by the one the singer loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be writing a story about which no one has an opinion. Oh, well. Had to happen sometime. 
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!


	6. Panic

Dean's POV:  
Sioux Falls

Irritated, rebellious hazel eyes glower at me through the small square window looking into Bobby's panic room. "Look, Dean, just let me out. I won't lie to you again."

I raise an eyebrow. "Or use me again?"

His intense gaze drops. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . ." A sigh. "I couldn't . . . ."

I cross my arms. "Couldn't what?"

A whisper. "Couldn't resist."

I barely stop myself from banging my fist against the metal door. "Yeah, I know," I hiss, "the demon blood made you so horny that you went for the first person you saw." I snort. "Glad I could be of service."

A thump reverberates through the thick barrier between us. Sam must have punched the door. "It wasn't like that!" He steps back, mutters, "I mean, maybe it was at first, but it didn't stay like that. Not really." A rapid glance to my eyes, then my lips, then the floor. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, "So irresistible."

The worst part is that I want to believe him. A far too loud, too persuasive voice whispers inside me that I should forgive him, should open the door, should drop to my knees before him . . . .

I gasp, my eyes flying open so wide and so fast it hurts.

Where did such a thought come from?

Sam sidles back up to the window. "Dean." His eyes brim with concern. "Are you okay?"

A twitch deep in my stomach blooms into a cramp. I channel the pain into a glare aimed at my brother. "Why wouldn't I be okay? My brother got himself addicted to demon blood and started using me as his own personal hooker, but, other than that, everything's peachy."

Another fist slammed against the door. "I never thought about you that way. Never!" 

"So my straight little brother suddenly realized he's gay for me at conveniently the same time his blood Viagra kicked in?" Spittle flies from my furious mouth.

Sam huffs a breath. "Come on, Dean, you know how attractive you are. Straight men hit on you all the time." His voice lowers. "Is it so surprising I would notice you, too?" He shuffles, flinches in noticeable discomfort.

I narrow my eyes at him. Come to think of it, Sam's (sizable) never decreased during our car ride here or while Bobby and I manipulated my brother into entering the panic room. "Are you still . . . ?"

He flushes. "It doesn't really go away without help." He adds in an almost imperceptible tone, "At least, not when you're around."

I frown. Another strange, submissive, seductive urge blossoms within me, begs me to unlock the door, tempts me with vivid pictures of Sam bending me over the cot.

Why?

I'm furious with my brother; he lied to me, betrayed me, exploited me. Why do I still want him so desperately?

Unless . . . .

I recall the crackling pleasure as Sam's seed explodes into me, making coitus with him an experience unlike any other--an experience I crave as much as the orgasm that accompanies it. Could some of Sam's addiction have transferred to me, like the world's most bizarre STD? I've never heard of such a thing, but demon blood isn't exactly an earthly substance.

I hear a soft intake of breath in front of me. A glance up reveals Sam's eyes glassing over, his skin paling, sweat glistening on his forehead.

He's going into withdrawal. Already.

Good.

The sooner he's completely clean, the better it will be for both of us.

*

I am even more certain of this after a conversation with Castiel reveals that the blood would change Sam irrevocably, turn him into something I would have to hunt, to kill.

The flutter of angel wings still echoes around the shadowy scrapyard as I reach into the Impala for the pack of smokes I remember accidentally kicking under the seat during a hellhound-induced hallucination a handful of hours before my deal came due.

I lean against the car as I suck in my first lungful of deleterious bliss.

It should bother me that I'm inviting an addiction of my own while my brother screams his withdrawal only a few yards away, but I can't bring myself to care. I need this comfort, as fleeting and ultimately harmful as it might be.

"You're unclean." The deep voice of my angelic friend jerks me out of my thoughts. When did he teleport back here?

I turn to find Cas standing way too close into my personal space, so I blow smoke on him before leaping back. "Is that a way of telling me I shouldn't smoke?--Because, trust me, I've heard it all, mostly from Sam." I roll my eyes.

The angel cocks his head, squints. "Certainly, the nicotine is exerting a destructive force on your lungs and heart and brain, but the affect is reversible so long as you refrain from smoking in the future."

I roll my eyes again.

Castiel ignores my scorn, continues, "But you are unclean on a deeper level. Darkness streaks across your soul and alters your core." 

I take another drag, mutter, "Tell me something I don't know."

Castiel straightens his posture; the shadow of giant wings flits briefly into shape in the dim light behind him. "I returned to warn you to end your relations with your brother before you are damaged beyond repair."

A blink of an eye and he's gone.

*

Minnesota

One minute my freshly juiced-up brother is throwing me across the room; the next he's kissing me urgently, pressing me into the hard, unyielding floor as I helplessly kiss back.

Wait. Bad idea.

I push him off me, land another punch as I sneer, "I don't want Ruby's sloppy seconds."

He reels, wobbles as he catches his balance. "I didn't," he insists. "We didn't." He murmurs "I couldn't" to the floor before blazing eyes rise to meet mine and he stalks me across the room.

Ruby didn't get any?

I knock Sam down, slam his head against the floor a couple times, attack his mouth. He rolls us over, bites my neck while I rake my fingers down his back. Denim rips as Sam yanks my pants down to my ankles; bruises flare as he roughly flips me onto my stomach.

Sex is not so different from fighting sometimes.

Two fingers force their way into my mouth as a gruff voice orders me to "Suck."

Right. No lube.

This will hurt. But I've never wanted it more. Besides, men have told me (before I told them to get lost) that the pain is quickly swallowed by pleasure, and-

It doesn't hurt.

My body easily swallows Sam's enormousness. And it. Feels. So. Good.

I'm a moaning, writhing mess in moments. Every thrust fuels the conflagration burning within me, every touch ignites a new fire to join with all the others until my whole body is aflame, until, with a groan of my name, Sam spills lighter fluid into my core and I explode into a supernova of ecstasy.

Warm weight slides off and out of me.

I turn my head, lift myself as far as my fight-induced injuries and post-coital haze allow.

Sam zips his pants, spews defiance, makes for the door.

I manage to gasp out, "You walk out that door, don't you ever come back," but my only answer is a slam.


	7. Turning Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's strange writing this story from two perspectives: Sam and Dean might be sharing events, but they experience them so differently that it almost feels like I'm actually writing two stories.

Sam's POV:  
Maryland

I stare blankly at my phone, the words from Dean's voicemail echoing through my mind. His terminology isn't entirely new. He called me a monster during our last fight and he informed me months ago that he would want to hunt me if he didn't know me. But.

Cindy, our demon-possessed nurse captive, wails from somewhere behind me as Ruby drains her of blood. I should stop Ruby, convince her to find a demon whose meat suit is already dead. But.

"Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak." I flinch as Dean's greeting replays inside my head. Even at his most furious, my brother has never spoken to me with so much disdainful coldness, never has his voice been so completely devoid of affection. Dean's love has been my only constant for as long as I can remember, and now it's gone. I've lost it. And.

A howl rises in volume and pitch until it's abruptly cut off. Ruby's profanity-laden threats remind the nurse who had the misfortune to catch the eye of Lilith's henchwoman how much worse everything could go for her, how much slower and more painful. Not that she's likely to slow down. We're actually under a deadline, here. After waiting for months for the right time to kill Lilith, we suddenly have a limited time in which to stop her from starting the apocalypse. And.

A pungent waft of demon-laced blood pirouettes past my nose. I breathe in, close my eyes. Spicy, metallic, heady. I'm salivating when I open my eyes, longing for a taste. Longing for . . . . A sense memory meanders down my chest, past my abdomen, to my groin. The taste of blood coated my mouth from a sneaked hit while I removed my jacket. Warm lips caressed my skin while masculine stubble tickled each spot in an arousing contrast. A tongue slid sinuously up and down my length. I blink, sigh. This will never happen again. That voicemail made it clear. Not like I don't deserve it. I've never been worthy of Dean's devotion.

Still, I wish he'd at least been willing to entertain the idea that I'm the one who's supposed to kill Lilith. I should be preparing for this fight with him, not Ruby.

Well. Not only Ruby. I would still need her help. The knowledge she can provide. And the blood. I'm certain I'm right that my drinking demon blood is the only way I will become strong enough to kill Lilith, the only way she will ever be defeated.

But it feels so wrong to prepare for a fight--a vastly important fight--without Dean.

A gallon of sloshing red liquid is thrust into my arms. I grab it reflexively, look down to see Ruby holding a smaller container and smirking up at me. "All done," she simpers. "Drink."

*

Once, when I was ten, I got invited to a Valentine's Day party. There was a huge glass bowl, filled with ginger ale and melting rainbow sherbet and ice cubes shaped like hearts. To my unsophisticated palate, it seemed like the most delicious (and adult) drink I'd ever tasted. I slurped up plastic glass after plastic glass until my tummy distended and started cramping--and I had to run for the bathroom.

None of that happens as I guzzle a gallon and a quart of pungent fluid. My stomach remains flat, calm, settled as my body absorbs the blood.

My intellectual curiosity about the affect of demon blood on the human body fades as, well, demon blood begins to affect my body; as it thrums, skitters, dances through my veins, leaving me gloriously confident, strong.

I take a breath, smile. I can do this: I can save the world.

Something small and soft and warm nudges me. A glance down reveals Ruby grinding her tiny stolen body against me, blinking coquettishly up at me. "Don't you need something before we head to the convent?"

Theoretically, my side effect should kick in within a few minutes, leaving me desperate for what the little demon is offering. But that particular bodily reaction has been erratic lately, sometimes popping up (in more ways than one) in seconds, sometimes taking an hour or longer. The last time I drank Ruby's blood, we wound up lying in bed, side by side, just talking, until she politely suggested I might want to take a shower. Then Dean arrived and my crotch jumped from uninterested to painfully hard.

Dean.

Dean's the variable, here. For some reason, the blood reacts to him in a way it doesn't to Ruby, or, in fact, anyone else. Strangely, that almost makes sense. Incest is so forbidden, so sinful, that of course ingesting demonic essence would make my brother unbearably attractive.

It has to be more than that, though.

I've been finding myself admiring the play of morning light on Dean's cheekbones as we drive past fields of corn, appreciating the timbre of his deep voice when he questions witnesses, enjoying his boyish glee when The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly plays on a motel television, smiling when his laugh rings out to brighten a bar's smoky dimness.

It's almost like . . . like I'm falling-

"If we're not going to have sex, we should go." Ruby's impatient irritation interrupts my thoughts.

*

A trap. It was a trap. Of course it was a trap.

Two demons lie dead on the floor. Ruby because Dean was right about her, and, being right, he deserved to stab her. And Lilith because Lilith knew her death would free Lucifer, because Lilith wanted me to kill her and so she sent Ruby to manipulate me into doing so at the right time in the right place.

I should have known better.

I did know better, deep down. I just didn't care. I wanted revenge on Lilith for having my brother dragged to Hell. I wanted to be the one to kill her because that would mean I was the chosen one, the special one. I wanted to feel powerful, important. I wanted an excuse to keep drinking demon blood.

Even now, the darkening, viscous liquid pooling beneath the demon women calls to me.

It would be so easy to dip a finger and lick it off, to collect some in a flask. (Do I have a flask on me or with me? I'm sure Dean does). My hands flex, stretch--unbidden--in the direction of Ruby's desiccating corpse.

"Sam." Dean stares up at me, face glimmering with anger, doubt, consternation. And love. The love that was absent from that voicemail sparkles in his green eyes, radiates in his features, softens his voice.

I betrayed him, seduced him, left him for a demon and he still came for me. "I'm sorry," I say, knowing an apology will never be enough.

Light bursts from the floor beside Lilith's body. No. The gate is officially open. That means-

Dean moves closer, grabs my shirt. I grip his, pulling him even nearer. "He's coming," I murmur into my brother's hair.

The world goes white.

*

We're on a plane. How did we end up on a plane?

Outside our window, the blast of light that should have incinerated us zooms up into the sky, creating a shock wave that nearly downs us. Dean gulps, reaches over to fist my shirt again, reminding me that my fearless older brother's one phobia happens to be flying. I wrap an arm around him, leave it there even after the pilot succeeds in righting the plane.

An unfamiliar lightness permeates my body. This makes no sense. I should feel heavy with shame and remorse and terror. And I do! But . . . .

My eyes widen in realization. But my blood is clean (or, at least, as clean as my tainted blood ever gets). I'm free of demon blood. And my lack of withdrawal symptoms means that I'm also somehow free of addiction.

How? Why?

Dean shifts beside me, pushes my arm off his shoulders. "I'm fine," he mutters, even as he gapes at the distant ground, eyes round, face pale, fists clenching.

His rejection of my proffered comfort informs me, more clearly than any words, that his coming for me in the convent did not, could not, erase the rift between us. He loves me enough to risk his life for mine, but he cannot (and maybe should not) forgive me.

It's only a matter of time before we separate, perhaps forever.


	8. Lucifer

Dean's POV:  
Missouri

The girl sidles closer when I wink at her, flips her dark hair so it ripples and flows like a river down her slender back. Her eyes sparkle, capturing the pulsing lights of the bar I wandered into this evening. When she sets down her martini glass, there's a clear mouth-shaped stain from her red lipstick.

It's not hard to imagine similar blotches all over my body, especially on my-

A pale hand drops on mine, one manicured nail scratches gently on my wrist. "Do you have to travel for business a lot? That must get lonely." She leans forward, thrusting her ample, barely-covered, chest in my direction.

I smirk, brush my fingers up her arm. "It gives me the chance to meet all kinds of" I wink "interesting people."

She crosses her legs. "And have you met anyone interesting on this trip?" She slides the olive from her drink slowly into her mouth.

I give her tall, curvy form an appreciative once-over. "Maybe."

She stands up, steps closer to me, runs one hand down my chest, whispers in my ear, "Maybe we should get out of here." Her hand slips down further until it presses against my bizarrely uninterested groin. She freezes. "Maybe not."

I haven't been with anyone since having angry sex with Sam weeks ago. I enjoy flirting as much as I ever did, and I have no trouble inventing all kinds of creative fantasies, but my body just doesn't seem to react to even the sexiest women. I would worry that I'm having performance issues (when I'm only thirty!) except my crotch perks right up whenever I picture my illicit encounters with my brother.

The way he nibbled on my neck while sinking carefully into me, his fingers digging into my hips-

"There we go," a pleased female voice comments. "Hello, there." A small hand rubs my hardening groin.

I jerk away, stand up. "Actually, I'd better get back," I stammer. "Early morning tomorrow." I stagger out of the bar, berating myself.

Separating from Sam was the right thing to do; using memories of him to get off with a girl would definitely be wrong.

*

Coming face to face with the future version of myself was disconcerting. It's a relief to know my face won't change all that much in five years, but I hate to think that I'll become so cold, so empty, so callous. So quick to sacrifice friends and family.

Coming face to face with a Sam who isn't Sam is utterly horrifying.

Future me may have aged well, but this Sam--Samifer?--hasn't aged at all. Being an (arch)angel condom means that his physical development has stopped. He still looks like a beautiful boy in his mid-twenties, instead of the handsome thirtysomething man I know (hope?) he'll someday be.

Dressed in a white tux while holding a red rose, Samifer could almost pass for a bridegroom.

Does that make me the bride?

No. Of course not. This intimate rose garden ceremony was arranged for my future self. And he already played his role to its tragic conclusion.

I glance at his broken corpse, look away, shudder.

A cool finger lifts my chin, turns my face so that I have no choice but to look up. "Still so young, so pretty," Samifer comments in a soft voice that will never deepen into the baritone I suspect my brother will one day have. If he gets the chance to age into his thirties. "I get why Sam was so enamored of you."

I snort. "Sam was so strung out on demon blood he just wanted a warm body to rut against, didn't that I'm the wrong gender. Or that I'm his brother."

An icy chuckle. "Oh, not so. Sweet Sam still pines for his big brother. I can still feel him inside, longing for you." Samifer presses his free hand against his chest. Hazel eyes, so familiar in shape, so foreign in expression, close for moment. "All he wants is" his eyes briefly flash red when he opens them "this." Chilly lips bear down on mine.

Wrong. They feel wrong. Somehow more wrong because the form and texture are the same as those that haunt my thoughts. Flavor, pressure, temperature--all wrong, all completely not Sam.

I twist away from the devil's grasp. "You're not him," I insist. "And I don't believe he wants me kissing you, even if you let him feel some of it." 

A close-mouthed smile, more threatening, somehow, than a glare. "Believe what you want. See you in five years."

And he's gone.

And I'm back in 2009.

*

I can't blame Lucifer for wanting my brother, when I want him (so desperately) too. Maybe the devil will get him in the end. All the angels seem to think that's inevitable. Future me said I should say yes to becoming Michael's meat suit so that Samifer won't have free reign to destroy the world. Zachariah said the same. Makes me wonder if I actually saw a version of the future or if Zach just zapped me with an incredibly detailed hallucination.

All I know is that I won't stop Sam from saying yes to Lucifer if I'm not with him and I won't stop myself from becoming an inhuman, cold-hearted prick if Sam isn't beside me.

And.

I need to stop denying to myself how much I need to have my brother by my side. I don't know when I'll be able to trust him again, but I can't stay away any longer, not if he wants to be with me.

Even if all he wants is a hunting partner or a big brother.

*

Things are awkward. We have trouble meeting each other's eyes. Our sentences are stilted. There's so much we're not saying, so much neither of us wants to talk about. Ruby, Lilith, Lucifer, blood. 

But there is one thing I have to know.

Sam plops on one of the beds in our motel room, covers his face with his hands. I settle down across from him, reach over to place my hand on his knee.

He blinks up at me, hazel orbs shiny and rimmed with red. "How can you bear to touch me, after" he swallows "after what I did to you?"

I brace myself before meeting his eyes. "You didn't do anything to me that I didn't want."

His face drops back into his hands. "I know," he mutters. "I took advantage of you. That's worse than all of the other ways I've betrayed you."

I remove my hand. Sam seems to feel nothing but guilt. It's looking like Samifer lied to me--assuming he was more than an invention of Zachariah's. 

Sam heaves a sigh. "Did I tell you I ran into hunters? When I was working at the bar?"

He did? I shake my head.

"They force-fed me demon blood. I spit it out, but" he bites the inside of his cheek "I could taste it, even after brushing my teeth. And I could almost feel the affects. Like swallowing a trace amount was enough to give me a mild high." He grimaces.

I'm horrified to realize that I wish there was demonic essence zooming through his bloodstream, because then he would want me, and his blitz would pass to me through his spunk. And. I shouldn't want that. Even though it's apparently the only way Sam has ever desired me. Or will ever. (I bet if I'd been there-).

Sam hunches, making his large form as small as possible. His voice drops to a barely audible murmur. "It's all gone now. You don't need to worry." He bends lower. "I just wish I'd known before that-that I . . . . And now it's too late." He shakes his head.

My eyes widen. That sounds so much like what I want to hear that I don't trust it. But, I don't care. I'm going to take the chance. "Maybe not." I use the smooth, deep tone that sweeps women off their feet and into my bed, as I glide over to his side and lean over to kiss him.

He jerks. "You-you don't want this."

I roll my eyes before sliding an arm around his shoulder. "You know that's not true. That was the whole point of our conversation." I brush a few strands of hair off his forehead, whisper in his ear. "The question is whether you want this."

He shivers. An instant later, he's embracing me, drowning me with kisses and caresses. 

There are none of the fireworks from our blood-fueled liaisons, and, even if a part of me misses Sam's desperate passion and blood high he transferred to me, I can't complain about slow, soft, tender lovemaking.

Besides.

The world is ending, probably at my and/or my brother's hand. I can afford to be selfish.


	9. Famine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone!
> 
> (Wow does it feel weird to write a Valentine's Day chapter on Christmas, but that's just the way things worked out).

Sam's POV:  
South Dakota

Dean and I lie on our sides on his bed, kissing leisurely. I slide a hand down his back to his rear, tease at his hole. As ever, it responds to my touch, opening right up, allowing my questing fingers into the warm, moistening interior.

I wonder sometimes if this is normal, if all men accustomed to bottoming react this way. (My own body certainly doesn't).

I kiss down Dean's jaw, suck on his neck, draw his skin into my mouth, feel the pound of his pulse against my lips. If I bite down hard enough, will his blood gush into my throat? Will I feel hot, thick liquid coat my mouth? Will it paint my tongue so thoroughly that the taste remains even after I swallow every red drop?

I jerk away. Where did that thought come from?

Dean blinks up at me. "You okay, Sam?"

I nod. "Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Where were we?" I try to smile as I gather him in my arms again, press him into the mattress, my lips seeking his.

Dean sits up, heaving me off of him in the process. "You know, I'm not really feeling this tonight." He adjusts his clothes: straightening his shirts and rebuckling his belt and zipping his jeans.

No. I hop off the bed. "We could switch places," I suggest, ignoring the fact that I sound like a teenager desperate for any taste of his date.

Dean rolls his eyes. "At some point, you're going to have to accept that you're a top, Sam." He grabs his jacket. "Your clumsy attempts to bottom aren't much fun for either of us." He stalks out the door.

I can't argue with that assessment. It's just. I feel like an equitable relationship (not that we're exactly in a relationship) between two men should involve taking turns on who has the more dominant position (in bed), so I end up insisting that I bottom sometimes, but then I just don't enjoy it (much), which leads me to wonder why anyone would have a preference for that, which makes me feel guilty for always topping. Which starts the cycle over. I can't blame Dean for growing sick of it.

I expect to hear the Impala roar to life as Dean tears out of the motel parking lot in search of bars and single women, ready to celebrate unattached drifter Christmas after all. Instead, I see his outline through the window, pausing just outside to light a cigarette. 

Dean took up smoking again during our separation. I hate it as much as ever, but I really have no grounds to condemn him for (re)acquiring a dangerous addiction.

I'm distracted by the sight of a scarlet ribbon draped over the pages of a book I borrowed from Bobby. The sinuous curve almost resembles a thin river of fresh blood.

I blink the thought away. I really, really don't have grounds to condemn Dean.

His shapely silhouette takes a long drag, tilts his head back as he slowly releases the smoke from his lungs. I find smoking as gross, as unpalatable as ever, but I can't deny that the sight of Dean slipping a cig between those full lips, pursing them as he breathes in the drug, opening them to blow the smoke out, makes my heart beat faster and my clothes grow uncomfortably tight.

I press a palm to my aching hardness.

I look up to find Dean frowning at his barely-smoked cancer stick. After a moment, he hurls it into the darkness.

When he stomps into our room, he opens a beer and flops on his bed, but after a few sips, he deposits his bottle on the side table and doesn't touch it again.

He doesn't want to drink or smoke or have sex, either with me or a woman. Granted, he hasn't hooked up with a girl since we started our whatever this is, but he loves the other three.

I spend the rest of the evening alternating between researching our current case and studying up on symptoms of depression.

*

Depression or not, whatever's going on with Dean seems to have made him immune to Famine's spell.

I wish I could say the same.

My brain inundates me with vivid reminders of the sight, smell, taste, affect of demon blood. My body twitches, sweats, pants. The Horseman brought a whole entourage of demons to this nowhere town. It would be so easy to capture one, drain him. And, once I do that, I would have the power to control the rest, to bring them one by one before me, so that I can drink and drink and drink . . . .

I swallow the excess saliva that thought generated.

Dean handcuffs me to the bathroom pipe, tests that I'm securely fastened, sufficiently immobilized. My face heats with shame over my weakness--over the necessity of this action. I should be marching by Dean's side to defeat Famine, but instead I'll be left behind, tied to a disgusting motel sink.

A cool hand lifts my chin. "Hey," Dean says, "Listen, you asked for help instead of running off to suck blood." The Dean Winchester trademark smirk glistens for a moment. "Good on you."

I try to smile back as I lift my eyes to meet his. Green orbs the color of new leaves unfurling in Spring gaze tenderly, concernedly at me. They brighten the room, bring me hope that we will prevail. And. They show that my brother still cares about me, loves me. After everything. "Rip that horseman apart for me," I order.

A blinding grin. "Will do."

A fleeting, burning brush of lips against mine in brazen disregard of the angel standing a few feet away before he leaps to his feet, marches off.

The cravings, dissipated by Dean's scintillating presence, flood back in. 

Visions of crimson blood, tinged with black, geysering from a demon neck, pouring hotly down my throat, racing invigoratingly through my bloodstream . . . . I just need to find a demon and I can experience all of that again.

I scratch the back of my cuffed hand.

Hurry, Dean.

*

I'll never know if Dean would have succeeded against Famine because the latter sent two demons to me and my willpower broke along with my cuffs when they attacked me. I emptied both of them.

I've never had so much demon blood coursing through my veins. The power still simmers in my capillaries as my towering high smooths down to a pleasurable ride. That never happened before. And, oh, it's glorious!--Why did I insist on killing or exorcising demons when I could have disposed of them by drinking them instead?

Maybe I'll do that later. Right now, I just want to relax and revel in the sensation sparkling through every digit. I can almost see the demonic essence glittering beneath the skin of my hand.

The hand that someone just snatched to chain to a cot. That I'm reclining on. Oh. I vaguely remember Dean and Cas and Bobby guiding me into the panic room, encouraging me to lie down. 

It probably is a good idea to lock me in--I'm sure I'll be a violent mess once I go into withdrawal. They could just let me devour all the demons we run into on a regular basis these days. But they won't. And I know I won't want that either once I'm clean. 

So I don't fight the hands tying me down.

Besides, this cot is comfortable. And there's a pentagram on the ceiling to stare at. Light shines through it.

Voices fade, boots stomp away, doors slam in the distance.

I can't blame them for leaving me alone, for not wanting to babysit me. Besides, I'm still wasted enough to enjoy my own company. Except . . . .

Except there are gentle hands running up and down my torso, sliding under my shirt, opening my pants, caressing my suddenly very interested shaft. My eyes pop wide. Dean. Dean stayed behind and he . . . .

He . . . .

Wow, that feels good. I blink rapidly, my breath whooshing as clever fingers tease me to full hardness.

I moan when they disappear, but a moment later, I feel a (not inconsiderable) weight as my brother crawls onto the tiny cot--straining it's slender legs--and straddles me. He regards me with wild, lust-blown eyes. "Let me," he insists, his voice even deeper, hoarser than usual.

My blood-addled, lust-crazed brain reminds me there's something that needs to happen here, but isn't functional enough at the moment to recall what. "I . . . don't you . . . are you sure?"

He scoots backward. "I prepped myself. And I'm very sure." I think I hear him mutter "Don't want to miss this opportunity. Might be the last time" before he sinks down on me, burying me deep within him.

The joy of gliding in and out of Dean's body merges with the rapture of my high, zooming me up to the stratosphere of ecstasy. Time loses all meaning as Dean bounces on top of me, his gorgeous face displaying intent and elation as he chases his completion while riding me to mine.

I thrust up as much as I can while being tied to a cot, long to touch his trim body, lave his nipples, feed on his lips.

But this show is all Dean's.

He shows awareness of that in every twist, every touch, every glide, every tiny smirk that lights up his already luminous face.

It's almost too much. I . . . I need . . . . "Faster," I growl.

A wink. "Gonna come, Sammy?"

"Yeah. Yes. Dean!" I spill into him, my every sense singing with joy and fulfillment. 

Dean grunts above me, moves still faster. Did he grow wetter or is that just my spunk? Wait. The former is impossible. Whoa, I'm getting woozy. Must be starting to come down. 

I hear Dean scream my name as my shirt dampens. 

Too bad my clothes aren't wet with another viscous substance.

I need more blood.


	10. Zachariah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!  
When I was a teenager in the year 2000, 2020 seemed impossibly far away, and yet, here we are!  
Here's hoping for an awesome decade. (Maybe we can borrow from the super cool 1920s).

Dean's POV:  
Sioux Falls

I pull on my cuffs, testing the strength of my bonds. All that happens is that the cot I'm tied to scrapes against the floor. So I guess I can move around by dragging the almost-bed behind me as I search the panic room for a pin to unlock the cuffs or something heavier to dismantle the cot. After which I would still have to find a way out of the room. And it's not like I can use the same tricks twice.

I really don't see why Sam and Bobby and Cas all care so much if I say yes to Michael. 

Our objective is to defeat Lucifer and my becoming Michael's sword is the best way to achieve that.

And maybe they should also respect the fact that I'm just . . . done. I'm exhausted from constantly fighting, fighting, fighting and never getting anywhere, never really winning. Sure, we kill the small-time monsters but we're helpless against archangels. Why did I--did any of us--ever think we wouldn't be?

I sigh, slump against the cot. (Which reminds me of its flimsiness by jerking a couple inches away). I could handle all of this if I could be certain--if I knew that Sam would always be fighting by my side. But.

Ex-junkie Sam still wanted me, even though he's as straight as ever. (It's not hard to notice which individuals draw the eye of someone you're with 24/7). I started thinking--hoping--that this meant I was more than a warm, willing hole for him. I started moving towards forgiveness, willing to accept that his betrayal was a blood-fueled fluke. That maybe he would have developed an attraction towards me naturally, that he would never normally choose a demon over me, that eventually said attraction would grow to more . . . .

I plop down on top of the cot, which squeals but holds, reminding me that it accepted the combined weight of both Sam and me not so long ago. I redden at the thought. There I had clear proof that demon blood still holds more sway over Sam than I do (that town was full of people whose deepest hunger was for a significant other. It's what drew us there, after all) yet I could resist jumping on top of him, merely to experience the rush of demon-laced come. I bounced on Sam's lap, laughing internally at his futile attempts to take control with his arms and legs tied to the bed, while bringing us both to completion. Imagined that Sam starved for blood instead of me because he didn't want to literally eat me.

I hop back on my feet, roll my eyes at my own idiocy.

Still-

The metal door bangs open, revealing the subject of my thoughts. Somehow, the Sam in my head always resembles the lanky teenager I fell in love with, so I'm always struck anew by my brother's adult masculine gorgeousness when I haven't seen him for awhile. Dark curls frame a chiseled face, tilted ever-changing eyes drift up my body to my face, plaid flannel accentuates the breadth of his shoulders.

My breath catches. My jeans grow tight. Something twinges deep within my abdomen (at least it's not a cramp--I've had too many of those lately). In a now-familiar but still disturbing phenomenon, I become loose and slick in the place I want Sam the most.

Sam, who loves me so little that his personal heaven was filled with memories of leaving me.

I swallow the stinging pain of the event that pulled away all my blinders, until I was in no doubt that not only will my brother never see me the way I see him, but he'll always find an excuse to abandon me, because I am only first in his life due to lack of other contenders.

Who knows? Maybe he's planning to ditch me for Castiel. They do seem very buddy-buddy all of a sudden. Also, the being I thought was my best friend did just beat me up. The combination of ideas fills me with as much fury as I can muster in my deadened state, so when Sam asks how I am, I spit out, "Don't piss off the nerd angels."

He moves closer, informs me that the angels have taken our resurrected little brother, and uncuffs me, insisting that he trusts me to help rescue Adam and not to use this as an excuse offer myself to Michael--even though I vow to do exactly that.

With a slight shake of his head, Sam slips right into my personal space, strokes my profile with the gentlest touch, leans in to press his forehead to mine. "I know you'll do the right thing," he whispers, "because you are the man I've idolized all my life, because you are the only one I really-." He stops himself.

I push away, head for the open door. Sam can't really have been about to say what the tiny thawed portion of my heart thinks he was. He doesn't feel that way about me.

Doesn't matter anyway: by the end of the day, I will be safe in oblivion while an archangel directs my body.

*

California

Zachariah exudes smarm as he simpers at me. "I'm happy you've finally seen the light, Dean." He peers snootily down at me. Why did someone like him have to find a vessel that taller than me?--I'm pretty sure he would find a way to look down his nose at me in a short meat suit.

"Whatever, Zack, just get Michael here." I stop myself from biting my lip in concern as I sneak a glance past the angel at my bleeding brother. There was really no need to threaten Sam when I came willingly.

Zachariah raises an eyebrow, steps nearer, pausing only when our chests are a bare inch from touching. His angelic scent surrounds me. Angels differ from unpossessed humans in that they always smell clean, like a sunny meadow after a good rainstorm. Somehow, Zack emits an oily aroma. I wrinkle my nose, but refuse to step back. I won't let the jerk assume I'm cowed when I. Am. Not.

The angel wrinkles his own nose, peeps disgustedly at me. "One more foray into degradation and you would have been useless to Michael."

Does incest have a particular scent? "If Michael thinks I've been living a pure life, then someone's been bearing false witness." My smirk makes clear exactly whom I think has been lying to the archangel. "What difference does it make, anyway?"

A snort. "Your addict of a brother has marked you as his consort. His demon seed has changed you, almost to the point where it would be impossible for Michael to enter your vessel."

Two gasps, the loudest from Adam. Guess he understood exactly what Zack alluded to. I squint up at the angel. "Consort?" Isn't that kind of like husband?

A dry chuckle. "You really don't know."

I roll my eyes. "Eagerly waiting for you to enlighten me." I sneak another glance at Sam. He stares raptly at Zachariah, clearly intrigued enough to forget his angel-induced injuries, but--as ever--he senses my gaze and meets it.

The angel tracks our actions, turns to Adam. "Erotically codependent, like I said."

Zachariah is swiftly surpassing Uriel as my most hated angel. Why is he Michael's most trusted henchman?--Makes me wonder if I should trust the archangel with my sweet bod. "Get to the point," I grit through my teeth.

Instead he taps his chin, thoughtfully. "Demon blood doesn't affect everyone Sam sleeps with when he's high. Poor little Ruby figured out fast that she wasn't the one. But she played her part anyway." He smirks. "You, though." A chortle. "Well. It's no wonder Sam's the devil's vessel when his own brother is the one person he wants as his mate."

Sam's eyes drop to the floor as his face blooms a cherry red, matching the shade of the blood dribbling from his mouth.

At this moment I am certain of two things: 1) Zachariah will die for harming my brother (and for being a pompous cretin) and 2) I will never say yes to Michael.

*

I toss my duffel onto my bed, rummage through it for some cleanish clothes to sleep in. Sam mirrors my actions at the other bed.

I know we need to talk, but I've never been good about starting important conversations. Sam is--but only when the discussion involves my feelings, not his. So we're awkwardly occupying ourselves while avoiding eye contact so we can delay this as long as possible.

I break first, so I attempt a humorous kickoff. "So, Sammy, you picked me as your consort. Should I swoon?"

He glares, grabs a grey v-neck, beelines for the bathroom. "Shut up, Dean," he says over his shoulder.

I follow. It's not like I haven't seen him naked before. "I just need to know if you knew about this before . . . before."

He deposits his tee on the sink, starts divesting himself of his layers. "I didn't."

Of course it was accidental. "Oh." I back away.

He grabs my arm. "But Dean, some part of me chose you, some part of me knew that you're the one I will always want by my side, in whatever capacity." He stares deep into my eyes. "My body knew I would fall for you before I did." His beautiful hazel orbs display only the purest honesty.

I'm mauling his mouth and backing towards the nearest bed before my brain catches up with me.


	11. Connections

Sam's POV:  
Detroit

I down gallon after gallon of demon blood, thick liquid sliding almost sensuously down my throat before dispersing throughout my bloodstream, but somehow never pooling, never sloshing uncomfortably in my belly. My stomach remains as calm and flat as ever, even as my nerves light on fire from the caress of the mystically powerful blood.

Beside me, Castiel incinerates each bottle the moment I finish emptying it, destroying all evidence, so the police will never find and analyse the bizarre properties of demon-infested human blood. Besides, the angel was the one who insisted a bender was a necessary first step for archangelic possession, so it seems fitting he help with the logistics.

I'm going to say yes to Lucifer.

And then I'm going to retake control of my body and jump into the cage from which I (accidentally) released him.

At least I have an excuse to binge on blood until my capillaries sing from the most incredibly amazing high I will ever experience! And is it ever. I drop the last crimson-stained jug on the asphalt and tilt my head back, closing my eyes as pleasure zings through my body, setting alight my every cell.

When I open my eyes, the dank, inky alley gleams bright as day. Castiel's huge guileless eyes sparkle like giant sapphires. A violet aura shimmers around Bobby. The Impala glistens like a sleek black panther. And I can sense the location, rank, and gender of every demon in the area.

My body itches to seek them all out: control them, drain them, torture them. Even as I'm both drawn to and repulsed by the incongruently freezing flame the hellspawn congregate around. Lucifer.

"Okay," I say, after slamming the now blood-free car trunk, "Let's go."

Dean straightens when I catch his eye, follows me.

I find myself sneaking glances at him as we walk. Correct that: I find myself trying not gawk at Dean while still in full view of those--Bobby and Castiel--who might not approve of our relationship. Every light in the vicinity beams gently upon him, highlighting his sculpted cheekbones, his full lips, his long lashes. He's just so . . . so . . . . Beautiful is too mild a term. He's incandescent, pulchritudinous, effulgent, glorious. With the blood of multiple demons pumping through me, I can see the dazzling purity of his soul. No wonder the angels call him the Righteous Man.

I look back just before we turn the corner because it might be--it will almost certainly be--the last time I see Bobby, Cas, or the Impala, so I don't notice Dean raising his arms to push me until my back hits the rough, dirty wall. Burning green eyes blaze up at me. I have just enough time to blink in surprise before he's kissing me.

Sparks ignite between our lips. Dean moans into my mouth, nudges his hard-on against mine. Which is the tinder needed to blast those sparks into a conflagration. I gasp, grip Dean's shoulders, and spin us until he's the one against the wall.

I lose time in the intoxicating heat of his mouth, only coming to when I realize the man in my arms is completely naked and I'm nearly so. When did that happen? I pull away, frowning. "Dean . . . ."

He grabs me, hauls me back, green eyes searing. "Give me this."

I close my eyes, try to ignore how perfect, how electrifying his body feels against mine. "Didn't Zachariah say-"

A calloused hand silences the rest of my sentence. "I don't care! I won't get you ever again. Give. Me. This."

I stop resisting.

A minute later, he's hoisted in my arms, his legs against my waist, so I can impale him. I sigh at the feeling of his moist tightness. (I still don't understand how my blood-laced seed caused him to start self-lubricating, but I'm hardly going to complain). Then I'm pounding, pounding, pounding, while Dean clutches me, groaning, panting, sobbing, exhaling my name.

With a final cry of "Sammy!" he flops back as he gushes between us. With that, I explode into him. Something snaps into place, tethering us together. My wide eyes meet his round ones. We're connected, indelibly, irrevocably connected--and I'm about to leave him to go sacrifice myself.

Slowly, I slip out of his body and set him gently on his feet.

He stares at me for a long moment before fumbling into his clothes. I have no idea what to say, either. All I know is that not all of the confusion bouncing around in my brain belongs to me. I'm not sure how to handle that. And I really do need to go face my destiny, or whatever.

Dean finishes lacing his boots, lights a cigarette. After his drag, he side-eyes me. "Don't start."

"I wasn't-I-"

He raises an eyebrow.

Right. He can feel all my emotions. I watch the smoke curling around his handsome face, thoughts of 'last time' swirling around me. On a whim, I hold out my hand. "May I?"

He shrugs, hands the stick over.

I inhale. The smoke burns my lungs, stings my eyes, makes me cough. It's all so wonderfully normal, so singularly human.

I'm about to hand the cig back when Dean keels over, clutching his stomach. Instead I drop it in a puddle in my hurry to wrap an arm around my brother. "I'm okay," he wheezes, "Let's go." But he keeps a hand on his abdomen. Our new bond informs me he's perturbed but strangely unsurprised.

Still, it's time. I stroll to the demon-infested, Satan-inhabited building and say yes to devil possession.

*

I'm in a diner. Cheery decor, a row of sun-infused windows, smiling waitresses taking the orders of happy patrons, "I Can See Clearly Now" playing on the loudspeaker. On the table in front of me sit a bowl of clearly fresh salad, a plate of grilled chicken, an El Sol beer, and my secret indulgence, a vanilla milkshake.

"This isn't real," I say out loud.

"True." A man pops into existence, sprawled on the bench across from me. He's me, if I ever felt like slicking my hair back and donning a white tux. "Thought you might enjoy a familiar location while I'm" he smirks "cleansing the earth."

I glare. "Get out."

He laughs. "I'm sorry. Is my appearance disconcerting?" He closes his--my--eyes in concentration. I get the fun of watching my face blur into that of Nick, the widower Lucifer's been wearing for the past several months. "Better?"

"Yes." I grudgingly admit. "What do you want?" After all, he won. He took complete control of my vessel, which means I can't jump with him into the Cage and circumvent the apocalypse.

Instead of answering, he purses his lips, regards me thoughtfully. "Do you know why I needed you to drink demon blood?"

I roll my eyes. "It strengthens the vessel. Also, it gave me enough power to kill Lilith and set you free."

He steals my unopened beer. "No."

"But-"

"Okay, it's true demon blood does strengthen the vessel. But Nick here" he points at himself "was about to explode, anyway. There are better, more effective ways to do it. Spells that could be done on him." He guzzles the beer. "Of course, I would have had to vacate him first, and I only would for your fine form" he leers "so there was no point."

I frown.

He adds, "Anyway, you're my perfect vessel, created just for me. There was no need for any of that with you." He leans forward. "Did you see Michael insisting on any first steps for your brother?"

I guess I just assumed taking on the devil required more oomph. Also, now that I think about it, just before her death, Ruby said something about the blood being unnecessary because-

"I see you've figured out the rest." Lucifer conjures a plate of fries. "You were already psychic. Azazel chose you and all the special children because I gave just enough precognition to find the future parents of psychic babies. You could have developed your powers without demon blood as a conduit and killed Lilith just fine. Probably" He shrugs. "Or you could have just stabbed her with the demon knife."

I'm numb. "So why . . . ?"

He nibbles a fry. "Demon blood acts as a conductor for psychic powers. It allows you to access your full potential far quicker and more easily than you would otherwise. But it also links you to demons, gives you the ability to sense them, control them, lead them."

Inadvertently, I mouth "Boy King of Hell."

He points a fry at me. "Exactly. I plan to rule both Heaven and Hell, so I need a lieutenant who can take charge of Hell while I'm taking care of business upstairs. Who better than the person I'm most intimately connected with?" 

I get it. "And the blood created a consort for me so I wouldn't be alone down there and so I wouldn't want to leave to seek the person who would already be beside me."

He laughs. "And how fitting that Hell's ruling consort should be the king's own brother." A sly smile chills the room. "Not really a brother anymore, though."

"What?"

"Your consort must be able to rule beside you, so the blood changes him. But he also needs to be compatible with you in every way." He waggles his eyebrows.

I freeze. Self-lubrication. Stomach cramps. Dean's body literally morphed. To suit me. I want to throw up.

Lucifer stands. "See you after I take care of my pesky brother."

*

Time loses meaning when you're stuck in a small room with nothing to do but eat fake food and try to interact with fake people. A fake newspaper or laptop might be nice!

I've tried every method of escape only to learn there isn't one. The doors don't open, the windows don't break, the tables are welded to the floor, the walls don't so much as chip. There's no way out.

So. I'm erecting flimsy fortresses with the laminated menus.

Something clenches around my heart, unleashing a torrent of foreign emotions. Fearlovehatedespairlonging. Dean. Those are Dean's. He's in trouble. Pain. Did he?--Tell me he didn't decide to take on the devil.

He did.

I can almost feel him. Almost . . . .

Green. A green army man. A tiny toy that doesn't belong in this generic diner, but it does belong in the Impala, crammed into the ashtray. That means--that means Lucifer is, right this minute, killing Dean in front of his beloved Baby.

NO!

I focus on that green army man and PUSH.

*

Stull Cemetery

I gulp lungfuls of authentic Midwestern air, unclench the fist that was about unleash the final, killing blow on my brother. "I've got him," I gasp out.

Dean collapses. I want to hug him, comfort him, get him fixed up, then abscond with him to a tranquil beach.

But I can't. I don't know how long I'll be in control. So, I open the portal to the Cage and jump in, taking Michael (and my unwitting younger brother) with me.

I fall. Fall. Fall until all I see is black. 

*

Sioux Falls

I wake up in Bobby's panic room.

I have no idea how I transferred here from Lucifer's Cage, but I can sense that it's been months, even years. Possibly both: months up here, years (decades) below. My body feels strange, unfamiliar. My hair is a different cut. My body is less muscular, more toned. My clothes are comfortable enough to clearly be mine, but not ones I recognize. My arms and torso are littered with scars I don't remember getting.

And.

Not only am I somehow Lucifer-free, I'm clean of demon blood. Completely. No symptoms of withdrawal. No desire to run out and drain a demon. Nothing except mild twinges of craving I expect to experience for the rest of my life. But they're manageable. I know this in the same way I know my nether regions have gotten a lot of non-Dean action lately.

Dean.

The tether between us holds strong. He's nearby, (In Bobby's living room, maybe?), wavering between stress bordering on depression and the mix of excitement and curiosity he always exhibits when embarking on a new case.

An unplanned smile curves my lips. He's probably pouring over lore books with Bobby, maybe sipping a beer (what time is it?), and I bet his sleeves are rolled up, revealing his tanned, well-shaped forearms. Maybe he's biting his lip as he concentrates and cracking inappropriate jokes over the subject matter and leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed, revealing those long, enticingly-bowed legs.

And why am I lying around down here when I could be with him?

I race out of the room and up the stairs.

"Dean!"

*

Hugs. Unsatisfactory explanations. Food. Awkwardness.

But, through it all, I can barely keep my eyes off my brother. The last time I remember seeing him, he was beaten (by my hands) to the point of being nearly unrecognizable. Now, though, he's healthy and vital and handsome. And his heart beats with joy and affection and concern (for me).

I don't even notice when Bobby slips out of the room.

Dean stands near the window, glowing in the afternoon sun, the light brightening his hair into the blond of his childhood and early twenties. He looks unattainably beautiful, like a golden statue. Like someone I shouldn't taint with my darkness.

Green eyes sweep over me. "Don't."

I'm caught by their emerald depths. "Don't what?"

He saunters towards me. "Don't think whatever has you getting all sad."

He's all predatory grace, muscles flexing sensuously beneath denim and cotton and flannel as he walks. My breath grows shallow as my momentary despondency whisks away, replaced by carnal imaginings. 

A grin. "That's more like it." And he plunks in my lap. 

It feels so natural to have him there, even though I can tell--somehow--that we haven't touched this way since our frantic coupling just prior to my saying yes. (Even though I'm certain my body has had plenty of sex since then. Maybe I can convince Cas to tell me what Dean won't). Dean belongs in my arms, his lips belong against mine, and he can keep grinding our groins together for as long as he likes.

A pair of soft, moist lips nibble my earlobe, whisper, "Bobby went to talk to Jody about something. He won't be back for hours."

I slide Dean's flannel off his shoulders, push at his tee until he obligingly pulls it off, revealing a pair of nipples conveniently at eye-level in this position. I suck and bite at them while trailing a hand down his back to dip under his jeans and tease his hole. His wet, loose hole. Because that's what happens when he gets aroused now.

I freeze, remembering Lucifer's words in the fake diner. "Dean," I say, carefully, "Are you sure you want to do this? You could get-" I can't say it.

Dean stands up, regards me steadily until my shifting eyes meet his. "I know. I went to a clinic to get tested. Said I was intersex. Which I guess I am now." He scuffs his boot. "And the long of it is that I have a fully-functioning womb."

I stand up, too. "And you're okay with that?" How could my ultra-masculine brother possibly be so calm about no longer being entirely, well, masculine?

He frowns, looks into space. "You were gone. Forever, I thought. And, I liked knowing that you changed me, that I was yours even you weren't there."

My eyes widen. This is a gift I don't deserve, but I am not going to reject it. I grab his hand to drag him to the couch, stripping the rest of our clothes along the way. Soon, I'm thrusting languidly into him while caressing his gorgeous face and murmuring endearments.

We're connected by body and soul and blood. I'm home. Complete. He's my other half, my partner, my . . . . Consort isn't the right word because I will never want to rule Hell. Boyfriend isn't deep enough. Lover is closer. 

I pump faster, bringing us to completion, and as Dean screams his orgasm, the answer comes to me. Mate.

Dean's my mate.


End file.
